Silent Admonishment
by inthemiddle
Summary: After awakening rather disoriented, House discovers that he can't just let the past remain in the past.


Author's note: I do not own House MD or any of its affiliates. This is merely a creative outlet. The characters belong to the show, and those involved with its creation. The story, however, is mine. The situation is of my own creation. Any similarities to real people or actual events are entirely coincidental. Thank you.

Silent Admonishment

When Gregory House woke up, he was momentarily disoriented. He shouldn't have been. He was in the comfort of his own home. But there was one blaringly different variable: he was in bed. In the recent past, House had taken a few pills, played a little piano, scanned his TIVO, and fallen asleep before he could settle on a decision of what to watch. The following morning, he would wake up, groggy, unpeel one ankle from its place atop the other, and remain sitting upright until the numbness had reduced to tingling and the tingling had reduced to the familiar throb. House would then hobble to the bathroom, lake a leak, then take a Vicodin (he wasn't risking self-catherization ever again) and proceed on with his day.

But this morning, House's leg didn't hurt at all. In fact, it was nestled quite comfortably against some of the goosedown feathers of the pillow he had, apparently, placed under it. His head, however, maintained a dull ache that wouldn't quite go away. House felt uncharacteristically alive otherwise and finally allowed his senses to awaken.

And that's when he noticed a soft, womanly sigh of sleep sounding from next to him. "Stacy?" The name came from habit, and sounded far more hopeful than he had intended it to. Shit. Unfortunately, leaving his rather utopian stance of well-deserved physical atonement, House shifted to get a better view. Empty glasses were scattered. At least that explained the headache. And the mysterious creeping feeling that he had done something last night about which he would either regret or brag. Probably both, one to cover the other, in no particular order.

House was about to Phase Two of humoring himself when he saw her: naked her. Olive complexion, shoulder-length chocolate hair, and not a damn blemish on that body. Perfect breasts, too, but those were concealed rather adeptly (or was it tragically?) underneath a far-too-thick-for-his-current-taste sheet. She stirred slightly. House caught a glimpse of nipple. House, one. Stacy, well, that was kind of her victory, too.

House took a second to glance at her left hand. No ring. Once more, House counted his victories. Clearly, she had just come back into his life the previous night. She and Sir Sits-a-Lot weren't together, and House did not have to carry around that guilt. He'd just have crammed it into one of his little pill bottles anyway, and if he had it his way – full – there wasn't enough room for much else. He was up to Three. Spreading his own palm, House studied it with more intensity than he had used to study Stacy's breast. Dock a point. Silent admonishment. House, down to two.

His hand was calloused from his years of work of which no one would know. His thumb was nearly raw from playing the guitar since middle school; the pads of his fingers were hardened from years of flipping textbooks and pressing piano keys. But most noticeably, perhaps, was his palm. That was hardly recognizable from the cane that he was forced to drag around – as bitching as it was. That was Stacy's fault. With only a few bats of an eyelash, House dragged his well-worn hand down the contours of her arm. He did not remember that it had felt this way.

As her eyes began to flutter open, House slowly leaned in to kiss her lips. It was gentle, and even frightened. He knew how short this time was. As her dark eyes settled on his face, House forced a smile and a soft murmur of, "Good morning, Stacy."  
"But I'm not---."  
A quick glance at the clock. "For another two hours and thirteen minutes, you are." She nodded.

House, visibly shaken, rose from the bed, forcing a few large bills on top of her purse. Slowly, the pain returning in sharp pulses, House made his way into the kitchen. "I'm going to make coffee. And if you tell me your real name, I get three of those bills back." Another pill, another defeat. House, zero. Stacy, all.


End file.
